Ashes Of The Innocent
by NeonDragons
Summary: Sherlock is 16 - living in Italy during World War II - His father is a Nazi soldier, his brother is training to follow in his father's footsteps. Sherlock begins to grow curious of what is through the woods behind his new home after seeing smoke that gave off a horrible scent. When doing his own investigation, he meets John Watson - a boy in a concentration camp.


**The year is 1942. World War II it still occurring. Country: Italy.**

The house at the end of a pretty decent sized neighborhood was well known as the Holmes manor. It was extravagant– outside, a perfectly structured 2 story red brick mansion with a freshly white painted front patio and back porch. A willow tree sat in the middle of the back yard – where the second and youngest son of the Holmes family enjoyed to spend most of his time. Sherlock Holmes was his name. When the daily paper had been delivered, Sherlock would immediately turn to the section that held all of the crime articles and sit under his tree, writing down summaries, deductions, and facts about the interesting crimes in his leather bound notebook. It was something to keep his busy mind occupied. Inside of the house was a cream coloured tiled floor just as you entered – then a spiral staircase with a mahogany finish some 20 feet ahead. Underneath that staircase was a grand piano - one that Sherlock had learned to play years ago, but grew further into violin as he aged. The top floor halls were covered in a deep cherry red carpet and sandy walls. The sitting room had maroon walls and a dusty carpet, along with somewhat matching furniture.  
A beautifully expensive place.  
Sherlock enjoyed his room the most – a nice ledge beside his window with a view of the trees, the neighborhood and his widow tree. Most boys his age would be aiming for a good education, or a chance to become a soldier. There were not many other 'sociopathic' 16 year olds who were utterly fascinated when it came to suicides, homicides and murders. Anything having to do with a deceased person(s).  
Mystery was Sherlock's drug. And when that was not enough for his mind, actual drugs sufficed. His mind was different. A crazed ocean storm, the center of a tornado. Unstoppable and constantly screaming for attention. Like he is trapped in a crushing tide where everything is out of his control.  
_Think, think, think._  
He was eccentric – very different from all the other boys his age. But he was intelligent, nonetheless, and took the insults people slung at him like the most flattering of all compliments. He got a kick out of them. His father had been one of the people who constantly insulted him on how odd he was. The only think that his father liked about him was how he shielded himself from emotion and anything sentimental in life. It was how he and his elder brother, who was 7 years his senior, Mycroft were brought up.  
_Don't let anyone in._ _Bite the bullet. Keep your guard up – it is the only way to keep yourself safe from harm.  
_  
His father hated his fascination towards crime – he wanted Sherlock to follow in his footsteps; to become a soldier. Though he hated the idea. He couldn't stand the damn man. What he did for the country and how he treated his mother. He would wound her where she was most vulnerable – emotionally and mentally. She was what he called weak. She stood her ground most times, but Sherlock couldn't seem to find any respect for her as she was never the mother figure that two boys needed in their lives. She would stand by and watch as their father showed them the wrong way to act. As if they were supposed to know it was wrong.  
Finding respect towards his brother, Mycroft, was for an entirely different reason. Why he despised him was because he was working on becoming a soldier – following in their father's footsteps after all that the man had done to them. He lied through his teeth and he claimed to know the secret of life, which was not showing emotion and fighting your way through. Although he wouldn't admit it to the man's face – Mycroft was brilliant.  
What a terrible waste of a fantastic mind.

Boxes and bags littered the sparkling tiled floor just in front of the door. The Holmes family was moving out of the well known and magnificent manor that was their home. Sherlock knew why – because of his father's position as a soldier, and what he did. The man needed to be closer to his work. And because of the things happening to the people around them who were of Jewish descent. It sickened Sherlock deep inside of him – but he had no say and was forced to keep his personal opinions about his father's work to himself.  
It was only moments before they were due to leave and Sherlock was sat beneath his willow tree, sighing as his long, slender fingers flipped through the pages in his leather bound notebook that bore his scrawly handwriting. With a backwards tilt of his head, his brilliantly icy blue eyes scanned the trees wonderful branches. His tree. It was peaceful before Mycroft waltzed out onto the back porch, slowly making his way across the area before stepping out in the corner of the yard, staring at his younger brother from a distance with his hand held on his hip in an aggravated stance.

"Mother is growing quite impatient, dear brother." He called from across the yard, his voice carrying a tone that screamed of the annoyance he was experiencing already. The day had barely began.

"And of that – I am well aware." Sherlock's voice was of the same, deep monotone that it always was, but a lot lower, almost as if he didn't necessarily want Mycroft to hear what he had muttered from across the way. "I am saying goodbye to the old willow tree." He added when seeing the look of discontent cross his brother's face. The tree in which his mother rocked him underneath when he was a baby – where he swung as a child on a tire, tied with rope to the highest branch – where he went to study or calm himself when coming down from his high after abusing his body with drugs.  
A part of him… His escape.

"Grown a sentimental attachment to a tree, have we?" Mycroft inquired with a mocking smile on his face as he then stood only a few feet from where Sherlock sat underneath the old tree. The boy simply scoffed and shook his head.

"Forget it." He snorted and stood from what was previously his peaceful spot, then passed by his brother whilst tucking his notebook and newspaper under his arm. They both turned to face each other. "Stop pretending as if you never hurt and point out my obvious showing of emotion to make me feel as if I have committed a crime. I don't believe it is healthy – especially with your diet." Before Mycroft could retort, Sherlock was already turned around and walking in the opposite direction – towards the house. He quickly passed through the porch and dashed inside of the house, bounding the spiral staircase and entering his empty room. Upon approaching the door way, he stopped in his tracks and stared at the space. Repositioning his book and newspaper securely under his arm, he began to gently graze the fingers on his other hand across the wall – slowly approaching the window. When he looked out, he saw Mycroft standing beneath the old willow with his hand against the trunk. _Their _willow. Where their mother rocked them when they were babies and where they played as children. A piece of them that they were forced to let go of. The side of Sherlock's mouth pulled up to form a smug smile and he chuckled lowly in self satisfactory. Turning his body around on his heel, he padded out of his room for the last time – flicking the light switch off as he passed by and not looking back.  
_Time to let go, now. No turning back.  
_With a straight posture and his head held high Sherlock made his way back downstairs with a blank expression. His mother stood by the door alongside his father – a forced smile stretched across her wrinkled face, one in which Sherlock could not and did not return. Nodding his head towards his parents, he took his bags in his hands. Then, in came Mycroft from the backyard who cleared his throat and smiled over at their parents.

"It is time for us to leave now," He announced only the obvious. "Shall we?" With that, Sherlock was out of the front door with his eyebrows furrowed deeply as a few men dressed in uniforms like his father's own invited themselves into the house after he exited and began to pick up boxes. They brought them one by one to their baggage car, and Sherlock was watching until Mycroft nudged him forward. Sneering and sending his brother a hateful glare, he finally began to walk forward.

"It will all be okay, soon, Sherl." Spoke his mother in her usual soothing tone – but there was a deep sadness hidden beneath the seemingly strong voice of hers and the fake smile she pulled across her tired face. And Sherlock could only bring himself to give her a small sympathetic smile and light touch on her fragile shoulder.  
He was the one who should have been telling her that everything would be okay soon. But then, of course, he would be lying.  
They all loaded the second car and began down the gravel road, passing through the city and out of the neighborhood. He hadn't been out in the city for months, as he was denied the freedom to do so since all of this had begun. So, he couldn't help but keep his eyes glued outside of his window in the car. Both to avoid conversation with any of his family members and to enjoy the view of the city whilst he could, as he knew he was not going to see for a long while. The city was still so full of life – the world still spinning and there were innocent people dying everywhere. Life still continued although Sherlock felt as if he had disappeared long ago.

The car ride was painfully long, dull, and dreadful, but they all managed to make it to the new house without forcing small talk onto each other out of utter boredom, which Sherlock was so dangerously coming close to doing a number of times. He was luckily able to occupy himself for the entire ride by reading his newspaper from that morning. Then entire thing, even past the crime section, which he made sure to add more noted on into his notebook after the umpteenth time re-reading it. The car passed through gates which were guarded by men in uniform, once again. It was hardly surprising to him. The door to his side of the car opened and a man nodded at him. Sherlock simply exited the vehicle and shot him a quick glance before continuing over to the car that held their luggage.  
_This is it, now. Chin high. Show no discontent, no sadness. Show nothing. Let go of all of the emotions. Hold up those walls._  
With his bag in hand, he began towards the house. It was awfully bland. No plants, porches, lights, decorations… Just a grey house. Dull. It sure matched the new occupants.  
Everyone had already entered the house – Sherlock was the last. Inside wasn't terribly horrid as the outside obviously was. There was a decent sized kitchen and sitting room, along with a small office (for his father) and an upstairs. Nothing compared to their previous house, but it would suffice.  
Sherlock drug his bag behind him as he began up the staircase, his other hand clutching his notebook and newspaper tightly. The only unoccupied room was a small one to the back of the hall. Inside was a small bed, a tiny blurred window that occupied the space at the top corner of the room, a bedside table and a wardrobe. With a swift and fast movement did Sherlock chuck his bag onto the bed and open it to reveal his belongings. Inside were his clothes, books, and his beloved skull. He placed the skull on the bedside table on the end next to his bed along with the only books he was able to bring with him. 10 – Which was a very small amount to occupy a brain like his for however long they were going to be there. And with the knowledge that he wasn't going to be able to go into town at all or anytime soon he had brought along some of his old newspapers that he hoarded and his stash of drugs and cigarettes, in which his parents or Mycroft had not the slightest clue of. Boredom was due to hit Sherlock harder than he had ever experienced before, and he was ready for whatever was in store for him. Tucking the stash into the drawer in the bedside table, he then moved over to zip his bag up and stuff it underneath his bed. Mycroft stood in his doorway with his arms crossed – appearing out of nowhere, as he tended to do.

"Come downstairs when you are finished unpacking. We are all going to discuss what is going to take place in this new house and area." He announced in a soft voice – attempting to make up for his previous tone back at their manor. Sherlock rolled his eyes and crossed his legs.

"A family meeting? I decline that tempting invitation." Sarcasm. It was obvious what they would discuss. No visits to town, only being allowed in the house and front yard, etcetera.

"You must, as you are the youngest and have to be set straight." Set straight? What was he on about?

"I'll be downstairs, then, if you will be so kind as to exit my room and close the door behind you." With a turn of his head to avoid getting another retort from his nuisance of an older brother, he began to pretend to be busy sorting through his newspapers before hearing the door close. When it did, he immediately jumped onto his bed and moved towards the small, blurred window and began to fiddle with it until it finally decided to open. With a momentary smile of success, he jumped down from his bed and fetched a cigarette from his drawer, then, took out a match from his pocket in order to light it. The wonderful aroma of tobacco slowly began to fill the room and the taste of nicotine stained his lips as he sucked the smoke into his lungs. His mind spun at the refreshing feeling of being able to smoke, finally. It slowly began to spill out of the small window. Another inhale. Hold. And release.  
He slipped the lit cigarette between his long fingers and moved it from his lips – his head tilting back in satisfaction as the smoke slowly leaked from his nose and slightly agape mouth. The taste was overwhelming to his senses, as it had been a couple of weeks since his last. Getting onto the bed once more, he took in a long drag of the lovely cigarette and stared out of his small window – elbows propping on the ledge. Outside of it was what must have been the backyard, filled with junk pieces of cars, walls – everything, it seemed. Looking further out he saw a gate that looked as if it led to the front yard. It was likely. It was chained shut – someone didn't want him back there… All the more reason to do it. He let out a sigh, letting the smoke exit his lungs and brush against his face. As it passed by his nose, he breathed it in with his eyes closed tightly. Beyond the yard was what seemed like miles and miles of trees… But he had spotted something beyond those trees, as well. Smoke rising above the green tops. That smoke began to fill the air outside with an awful scent so he quickly put out his cigarette on the frame and closed the window, waving away the remainder of the cigarette smoke away with his newspaper. His body shook profusely as he began to go into a coughing fit – his face turning a light red. The smell out there wasn't natural and Sherlock knew as well as his father did what the smoke was coming from. Upon realizing that, his stomach began to twist inside of him and he came to the next realization… He _inhaled _what was in the air. The thought alone caused him to begin coughing again and his stomach to purge. As he heard footsteps approaching the bedroom door, he quickly walked over to hold it shut whilst his hands held his groaning stomach. The last thing he needed was Mycroft or his mother nagging about his habits, even if they did not know, yet, that he smoked.  
"I will be down there in a minute, Mycroft." Sherlock growled through the door – his reply being the fading of footsteps back down the stairs. He slid down the door of his bedroom – leaning his head against it as he closed his eyes and tried to focus on settling his stomach and mind. After he was calmed down, he finished putting all of his things away and returned downstairs.  
"You know what they are doing over there, yes?" He inquired with furrowed brows as he glared at his father, pointing in the direction where the smoke was coming from, even though there were no windows for anyone to see.

"Out where, Sherlock?"Looking over at the doors of each room, Sherlock saw more of the men who were dressed in the uniform that his father was. Right – he had to keep his personal opinion to himself.

"Nowhere. I recommend you not to go outside for a while, as the air is not at its finest." Turning around once more, he disappeared upstairs. "I am skipping the family meeting." He called back down to try and avoid Mycroft's future attempts at getting him to come down to the sitting room with everyone else. They would only tell him what he should and should not do. He knew it all well, but that didn't mean he would listen to what they had to say.

His thoughts wouldn't stop smothering him over what he had smelled out there, and how unconcerned his father seemed towards the disturbing truth.  
_Those innocent people are turned to ash._  
_Rebuild your wall. For caring won't save them at all. _


End file.
